


The Starfish

by Baphrosia (spuffy_luvr)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5986684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffy_luvr/pseuds/Baphrosia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike is content to be Buffy's right-hand man, but he also wants a purpose that is his and his alone.  There's more than one way to be a hero.   Written for EF's December Holiday Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of Human Rights Day and Letter Writing Day.
> 
> WARNING: This two-chapter story is NOT fluffy or Christmassy. There are parts that are outright disturbing (but nothing very graphic, because I cannot do that), including famine victims and evil vampires. This is the reason for the R rating.
> 
> However, there is redemption and a feel-good ending to make up for the disturbing parts.
> 
> The story ranges from the 1980's through post-series (maybe S10, maybe not - no comics knowledge needed). I spent many, many hours (far more than I did on writing) researching the history, culture, and dialects of the regions mentioned. It is as accurate as I can make it without ever actually having been there, but Google is no substitute for actual experience. If you have been to/are from Uganda, I welcome input. 
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, BarbC/Rahirah and tjbw, for their input. Thanks to MarieAilbhe for information on PlanUSA. Not my characters, etc., etc.

 

  
_November 2008_

 

Spike cocked his head, concentrating on the _clomp clomp_ of somebody making their way down the hallway towards his flat. The footsteps were heavy, far too heavy to be the love of his unlife, so he stretched back out onto the sofa and resumed flicking through the cable channels. After a moment’s rattling, the door swung open to reveal a be-suited Xander shuffling through a large stack of catalogs and envelopes.  
  
“Mail call!” he yelled.  
  
“Hi, honey. How was your day at work?”  
  
Xander jerked his head up, startled to find Spike already in their living room, but took it in stride. “Ah. Excellent.” He began tossing catalogs and magazines at Spike’s head. “Skymall. The Sharper Image. _Rolling Stone. People_. The Backyard Brewer. _TV Guide_. L.L. Bean.” He looked up. “Really? L.L. Bean?”  
  
Spike shrugged.  
  
With a shake of his head, Xander went back to sorting the mail. He slung another glossy Spike’s way. “ _Leather Enthusiasts_. And here’s _my_ mail: bill, bill, bill, and oh look - bill. Funny how those are all in my name, you big mooch.”  
  
“Not my fault the power company insists on a credit report before letting you sign up as a customer. Wasn’t exactly concerned with establishing my credit this past century.”  
  
“And now look where your irresponsible ways have gotten you.” Xander paused his sorting and frowned. “Hey, an actual letter. For you. From…” He squinted at the envelope. “Nuh-suh… Nnn-ssssub…” With a frown, he said, “Some person in… Uganda? You got a demon friend in Uganda?”  
  
Spike was already moving, using his preternatural speed to his advantage. He had the letter in hand and was halfway to his bedroom before Xander had finished his question. “Yeah, something like that,” he muttered, not paying any attention to his response, or Xander’s befuddled expression.  
  
Bumping the door shut with his hip, Spike tore the envelope open, wondering what Nsubuga had been up to this month.  
  


 

  
_November 1999_  
  
  
Buffy deepened her tentative explorations, sliding her fingers a little further down the back of Spike’s pants to cup one cheek, and he hummed his approval. He’d fantasized about taking her hard and rough while draining her dry, of course he had. But this gentle, hesitant, _sweet_ prelude to lovemaking -  
  
“God, I love you,” he said, too overcome for anything but the simple truth. Eloquence and clever wordplay could come later, after they were married. Maybe a sonnet for their first month anniversary…  
  
She nuzzled into him, then abruptly pulled back to look him in the eye, leaving him cold. “Spike,” she said, urgently.  
  
And far too seriously for his liking.  
  
“What is it, sweet?”  
  
“Did you really mean it when you said they were _funny_?”  
  
He wracked his brains, but couldn’t suss out his offence. Pulling her closer, he said, “Said what was funny?” Spike loved the chit, desperately, but even he could acknowledge she was a tad on the self-righteous side.  
  
“Famine pictures. From _those dusty countries_ ,” she mimicked, pulling back again.  
  
 _Well, yeah_ , was his automatic response, but managed to stop himself from actually saying it. He was evil, Buffy knew that. Had agreed to marry him all the same. But Spike understood there would have to be some give and take if they were going to make this thing work. Some restraint on his part - and he was capable of restraint. Exhibit A: he hadn’t mentioned that the famine victims were even funnier in person, had he? No, he’d kept that tidbit to himself. And not gotten a drop of blood any faster for his troubles, he might add.  
  
“Was just an expression?” he tried out.  
  
Buffy pursed her lips. “You seriously _can’t_ say anything like that around my mother, okay? She sponsors a girl from - from somewhere in Africa.” After a beat, she added, “I think it’s Africa? But, seriously. Mom writes to her all the time, and everything. She’d _never_ forgive you for making a joke about famine victims.”  
  
 _Sod her, then_ , Spike wanted to say, but he’d seen how important Joyce was to Buffy. And he had a bit of a soft spot for the woman himself, truth be told.  
  
Once he’d gotten over the indignity of the axe incident.  
  
“What’s the point?” he said instead. “So many starving kids. Can’t save all of them, hell, it’s probably doing them a favor to not send any money. One less mouth to feed. Why not let ‘em get on with dying, and decrease the surplus population?”  
  
Her eyes blazed with righteous fury, and Spike squared his shoulders, readying himself for a dust-up. But then Buffy paused, her posture visibly relaxing, and Spike knew she was making the same allowances for differences in moral alignment that he was trying out himself.  
  
And this was why they were a match made in… well, not heaven. But something as close to it as he would ever see.  
  
“You’re right, she can’t,” Buffy said. “It’s like that starfish parable. You know, the one where the guy walks along the beach and throws the stranded starfish back in the ocean? Mom can make a difference to _her_ sponsored child. It’s the same way with me and slaying. I _can’t_ save everybody.”  
  
She looked truly distressed by this, which did funny things to Spike’s undead heart. Made him want to help save the world. All kinds of wrong, that, but didn’t actually surprise him. He’d always been willing to do anything for love, and if this was what would make his girl happy…  
  
“But I save who I can, and it has to be enough. Just because I can’t save everybody, it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t even try.”  
  
Spike didn’t much care about saving innocents, whether in Sunnydale or Africa, but he nodded anyway. If it was important to her, then he’d learn to not let on that it was otherwise to him. “Not a word to your mum,” he promised, and was rewarded with a kiss.  
  


 

  
_June 2001_  
  
  
Spike slammed his way into the Summers’ kitchen at a dead run. When he dropped his smoking blanket, he was assailed with the overwhelming scent of grief. His fangs dropped of their own accord, triggered by the delectable smell and his ever-present hunger. But his eyes, traitorous buggers, filled with sympathetic tears.  
  
“What is it now?” he said gruffly. If it had been only Dawn, he might’ve given in to his grief, but Willow was present too, the pair of them seated at the counter and staring at a dog-eared sheet of paper.  
  
“It’s a letter from Aluel,” Willow said. “Mrs. Summers’ sponsored child in Sudan? Buffy must’ve taken over writing to her after Mrs. Summers died, and Aluel’s answering letter arrived today. She - she doesn’t know about either of them. Passing.”  
  
“Bugger.” He didn’t know what else to say.  
  
Dawn looked up at him, tears streaming down her face, before running off.  
  
Spike watched her go with a frown. He’d heard plenty about Aluel and her village from Buffy’s mum over the years, and even from Buffy herself a time or two. He didn’t give a toss about the girl, but he’d always honored his promise to never say a negative word. He wasn’t sure why - it wasn’t like it had been a real promise, given as it was under the influence and all - but he’d kept it all the same.  
  
Willow sighed. “It’s up to me to tell Aluel, I guess. I don’t think Dawn’s up for explaining why she won’t be sponsoring her any longer. All these bills…” she said, holding up a stack for Spike’s inspection.  
  
“I can do it. Write her.” When Willow gave him the disbelieving eyebrow treatment, he shrugged. “I’ve heard enough about the girl. I can handle it. And you -” He gestured to the stack. “You got plenty else to deal with.”  
  
She hesitated, and he knew she was actually considering his proposition. Sign of desperate times. Spike swiped the letter and envelope off the counter and tucked them into his pocket, making up Willow’s mind for her. He examined Aluel’s photo - she was a pretty thing, if you were into the scarified African princess look - and tossed it back onto the counter. “In case the nibblet wants it,” he said.  
  
Later, when Dawn was tucked up for the night and he was back at the crypt, he looked over the letter just long enough to get the gist of it. _So generous. So grateful for your kindness._  
  
Spike snorted. The Dinka bint was right, Buffy’s mum had been kind, too kind. “But your luck’s run out, brat.”  
  
He scrawled ‘ _The woman’s dead, so piss off and don’t be bothering the family. They’ve themselves to worry about now_ ,’ on a torn piece of notepad paper, and shoved it and a twenty dollar bill he’d nicked from Harris inside an envelope. Spike sealed and addressed the envelope to Aluel, care of PlanUSA, the way he’d seen Joyce do it a half dozen times. He squinted at the envelope. Something wasn’t quite right.  
  
Eventually, he figured out that it was missing a stamp, but since he knew sod all about postage rates to Sudan, never mind actually having any stamps, he set it aside for another day. His duty discharged for the time being, Spike settled in for some serious drinking.  
  
Maybe tonight he wouldn’t dream of Buffy’s last moments.  
  
Maybe.

 

  
  
_October 2001_  
  
  
“Buffy,” Spike said quietly, letting her know he was there.  
  
She ignored him a moment, continuing to shuffle papers on the dining room table into some semblance of order before looking up. “What do you want, Spike?”  
  
An automatic retort sprang to his lips, but her bleak expression had him biting his tongue so hard it bled. He counted to ten before answering. “You up for a patrol?”  
  
“Sure. Let me just… not have the money to pay any of these bills, first.” Buffy dropped her head to the table with a thunk.  
  
Spike reached out to touch her back, but pulled his hand back, unsure. “Got plenty more booze back at the crypt,” he offered.  
  
She turned her head just enough to peer at him with one eye. “I don’t think it helped, last time. Not in the actually making things better way, anyway.”  
  
He acknowledged that with a nod and a grimace, and waited uncertainly.  
  
With a heart-wrenching sigh, Buffy sat up, accidentally knocking a small square of paper to the floor. She reached for it, then stared at the photo the other side revealed.  
  
Spike recognized it instantly: Joyce’s sponsored brat. When Buffy continued to stare, frozen and silent, Spike tapped her on the shoulder. “So how about that patrol, eh? Chop chop, Slayer!”  
  
“I wonder what happened to her?”  
  
He had to strain to make out the words, even with vampire hearing. “Who now?” he said, shifting uneasily.  
  
Buffy held the photo up for his inspection. “Aluel. You remember, Mom’s starfish?”  
  
Spike gave the photo a cursory glance, and shrugged. “I’m sure she’s fine.”  
  
“I wrote to her, after Mom... She must’ve written back, because this is a new photo. Well, one I’ve never seen before.”  
  
He took the photo from Buffy. “Very pretty. Looks like she’s doing well for herself, no need to worry. On the other hand, plenty to worry about here on the Hellmouth. The night’s a-wasting. Evil’s afoot. So…” He dropped the photo into his pocket, then twisted Buffy’s chair with her still in it, tipping it forward until she stood. Taking her by the arm, he guided her towards the front door. “Grab your things, and let’s be on our way.”  
  
“Why are you in such a rush?” Buffy said.  
  
“No reason. Just feel like getting out there tonight. Don’t tell me knocking some heads together doesn’t appeal to you too? Taking your frustrations out on the undead populace?”  
  
“And, hey, I could start right now!” she said, painfully chipper.  
  
But she grabbed her stakes and coat and headed out after only a token protest, Aluel forgotten.  
  


 

  
_May 2002_  
  
  
Spike stumbled out of the cave. Hours, days, weeks later - he didn’t know how long it had been. Just _later_. The last rays of sunshine were fading now, and the villagers were lighting their fires. They watched him warily as he shambled past their huts, not making a move to help him, but not retreating either. One of the elders lifted a burning brand high overhead, but whether it was to better see him or ward him off, Spike didn’t know.  
  
Couldn’t find the energy to care, either.  
  
He needed food. And clothes. And shelter. Mbale was the closest town of any size, but Kampala was the better bet for a butcher willing to serve a walking corpse, especially with the way he looked the part at the moment. If he’d been in fighting trim, Spike knew he could steal a car or hitch a ride and make it there in one night. As it was…  
  
 _Just keep heading south_ , he told himself. _Not north_.  
  
Or he could just… not. Not head north, or south or anywhere. Just wait right here for sunrise. It was a tempting thought, but didn’t seem right that he should end himself. Not when he had so much to atone for.  
  
A dusty, naked child, barely big enough to come up to his knee, ran across his path. The child looked up, and froze. On the trip in, Spike would’ve relished the sudden tang of acrid fear, and the terrified deer-in-the-headlights look. Now, it left him faintly nauseated.  
  
So the soul was in place, then. Good to know. He hadn’t been entirely sure.  
  
Spike altered his path and carefully stepped around the child, willing away the sudden rush of memories. Though it had been over twenty years since he’d been in this region last, nothing much had changed. The circular huts, the dark-skinned locals barely eking out an existence, the absolute poverty and despair… The only difference was him, this thing inside of him that had him crying now, ashamed of who he was and what he’d done.  
 __  
This is not Karamoja. Do not think about Nakapiripirit, or Namalu. These are not the people you and Dru -  
  
He forced himself to keep walking, pushing on until he was far outside the comforting circle of firelight. When he could no longer hear the villagers’ voices carrying on the clear night air, Spike dropped to his knees and bowed his head.  
  
Just another monster in the darkness, crying over his sins.  
  


 

 

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: parts of this chapter are very disturbing. One of the worse famines in history occurred in the Karamoja region of Uganda in 1980-81 and, you guessed it, Spike and Dru will be there. It's also right next door to where Spike probably went to get his soul in 2002. Karamoja's struggles with starvation and war are ongoing today, and the poverty index is one of the highest in the world.

 

  
_September 1980_  
  
  
“She’s the third eye, the jewel of your crown. Dusty, hungry death.”  
  
“What are you on about, Dru?” She’d been in one of her moods for weeks, and Spike had quit paying attention to her mutterings hours ago. Except now he was trying to sleep, and she wouldn’t let him be.  
  
“There,” she hissed, digging her nails into his shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “She’s _there_ , your next Slayer.”  
  
Spike rolled over and cracked open one eye. “Inside the telly?”  
  
Drusilla gave him a withering look. “The place they’re talking about inside the moving pictures box.” _You moron_ , her tone added. “Karamoja. That’s where you’ll find her.”  
 _  
Well, what do you know. A straight answer, for onc_ e. “Yeah? How d’you know?”  
  
“Miss Edith sees her. A bright spark in the dark that burns and burns and burns.”  
  
“Of course she does,” Spike muttered. He watched the telly special on the region for a bit, not much interested in the walking skeletons other than for a quick laugh, but curious as to whether Miss Edith was telling the truth.  
  
Sometimes she lied.  
  
“This one will probably snuff it before we even get there,” he said when the next commercial came on. “And besides, if the populace is starving, so will we, pet. Not much fun in that.”  
  
“But I want to make a balloon.”  
  
Spike didn’t even blink. “I’ll fetch you one from a kiddie party. A lovely red one, how about, and a kiddie to go with it?”  
  
“No!” Dru said, working herself up for a good shriek. “I want to -”  
  
“All right, all right,” Spike said, “You’ll have your balloon, my princess, don’t fret.”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
“Promise.” It was easier to placate her, and hope she’d forget after a day or two, when a different whim struck.  
  
Hidden away below deck on the ferry from Tanzania to Kampala a month later, Spike had to admit this wasn’t some passing fancy. And she’d made him promise, the bitch, which meant he couldn’t back out. Not unless he wanted to spend the next decade chasing Dru ‘round the globe, trying to win her back. He’d been there, done that. Would rather play along - at least for now.  
  
It was a long, boring trek from the capital city out to the dusty backcountry of the Karamoja region. The meals grew more pitiful with each passing mile, and while the mewling children, all bloated belly and fly-covered eyes, were funny, they weren’t _fun_.  
  
Dru was enchanted, though, and fancied herself their Angel of Mercy. It was a role she took very seriously, singing each child to sleep before snapping its neck or slashing its throat. _Hush little baby, clickety-clack, bones will stack like twigs in my sack. Dusty, hungry, have no fear, away to heaven, little dear._ Her lullaby even rhymed, which Spike felt was an improvement over some of her ditties.  
  
He amused himself as best he could. If Dru was happy, he was happy. Or tried to be. The children were good for a laugh or two when they’d burst like a pinata with a well-placed kick, and watching their babies put out of their misery made the near-helpless mothers’ into a barely decent meal. With all that anger and sorrow pulsing through their veins, paired with the tang of shamed relief, it was almost possible to ignore the thinness of their blood.  
  
They finally reached what seemed to be Dru’s final destination: Namalu, in the Nakapiripirit district. “These are them,” she said as their stolen Red Cross relief truck puttered to a stop. “My balloons.”  
  
He still had no idea what she was on about with her balloons, but he shrugged and hopped out. Dru waited in the passenger seat, until he came around and opened the door for her. “Who first?” he said, eyeing the emaciated villagers shambling towards the truck, faces alight with hope.  
  
Several of the women reached for his hands, and Spike shook them off with a snarl and a flash of fang. They fell back, terrified and watchful but too weak to challenge the demons in their midst.  
  
Humming, Dru swayed her way through the dusty village, Spike at her back, until she came upon a little girl curled facedown in the dirt. She turned the mostly-dead toddler over, exposing bloated belly and spindly limbs. The stench that wafted up was enough to turn even Spike’s stomach.  
  
“This one’s soul wants to float with the angels,” she said. “Make me a balloon of her, and I’ll set her free.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Like this,” she said, and showed him.  
  


  
  
_December 1980_  
  
  
After three weeks of Dru’s circus balloons, Spike had had enough.  
  
The truck they’d arrived in had contained food and medical supplies, so the villagers had let them be, willingly sacrificing the children Dru took in exchange for a chance at survival.  
  
Dru, bless her, had seen how bored he’d been and sent him on his way with a blood-soaked kiss and a promise to meet him before the new year. They hadn’t set a time or place - she would simply find him. She always found him.  
  
Spike was glad to be well shut of that scene. There was no glory or fun to be had in killing those for whom it was a mercy. Besides, the Slayer Dru had promised him was nowhere to be found.  
  
“Miss Edith says you’re twenty years too early,” she’d said before sending him on his way. “I put out her eyes for being a lying little sneak thief, but I don’t think she’s learned her lesson. Do you want a turn at punishing her?”  
  
He hadn’t; he’d just wanted to get back to civilization, or what passed for it in this hellhole. He’d left the truck for Dru to use, if it was still in workable condition after the locals got through scavenging parts from it, and hoofed it out of there two nights ago.  
  
Now, he exited the cave he’d spent the daylight hours in, tired, dusty, cranky, and starving. Spike was halfway to Mbale and a decent meal by his calculations, and had no time for the scrawny old rag-wrapped woman perched on a nearby rock. On another night, he might’ve killed her for the fun of it, but right now he just wanted to get the hell out of this godforsaken land.  
  
“You’re too early,” she croaked out in heavily accented English as he passed by. “I should be dust, and my children’s children the ones to greet you.”  
  
He turned to snarl at her, and stopped short when he realized she was facing the night sky, not him. Her eyes were clouded white and unseeing in her shadowed face, and if it hadn’t been for the uncanny echo of Miss Edith’s message, Spike would’ve never assumed she was speaking to him.  
  
A strange prickling ran down his spine at the sight of the woman’s clay-streaked face and wild hair, but Spike shook it off and continued on his way. The blind old bat probably didn’t even know he was there.  
  
“You’ll find him when the time has come for change,” she called out. “In this same cave. But not now. You have to wait.”  
  
“Wait for _what?_ ” Spike snapped, whirling back around.  
  
Slowly, she pivoted her head to stare at him with unblinking eyes. “To show the Slayer who you really are.”  
  
“The Slayer?” he said in his most menacing voice, advancing slowly on the old woman. “What Slayer?”  
  
“You don’t scare me, demon.”  
  
She sounded almost pitying, which made Spike even angrier. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, making her teeth clack in her head. “How about now?” He shook her again, digging his fingers into her old bones until they began to crack beneath his grip. “What Slayer?”  
  
The old woman grinned up at him, her smile strangely savage. “He’ll make you whole,” she said. “When the time is right. If you’re worthy.”  
  
“What the bloody hell do you mean, if I’m worthy?” Spike shook her harder, thoroughly pissed off now. It was bad enough when Dru played mind games with him; nobody else had the right. “Tell. Me. What. You. Mean!” he shouted, punctuating each word with another shake and crack of bone.  
  
His only answer was laughter.  
  


  
  
_May 2002_  
  
  
Spike’s feet seemed to have a mind of their own. He’d intended to head for Kampala, but his feet took him in the opposite direction, to Nakapiripirit, covering the distance in a single night. He must have run the entire way, but he didn’t remember it. Triggered by the surroundings, his conscious mind had been hijacked by the horrors of what he and Dru had done to these people, and he’d had to see for himself what had become of the village he’d left to her not-so-tender mercies.  
  
He slowed as he neared the outskirts of Namalu. The village was humming with life in a way only he could detect; to the rest of the world it lay still and quiet in the predawn hours. Spike let out a sigh of relief. The memories had been so strong, he’d half-expected to find a wasteland littered with flayed corpses.  
  
 _Good enough_ , he thought, turning to go. The village had survived, and it wasn’t like he could do anything for these people anyway. Meanwhile, shelter was becoming an immediate concern.  
  
“Are you needing help?” a deep voice said.  
  
Spike turned to see a large man approaching the village. He shook his head, intending to continue on his way, but the man said, “You’re hurt.” He tilted his head, examining Spike’s half-naked state and multiple injuries. “Were you attacked?”  
  
 _Merely a flesh wound_ , Spike thought, stifling a giggle. “I’m fine, mate.”  
  
“This area is not safe for a man such as yourself. A lesson I think you have learned already, muzungu.”  
  
This time, he couldn’t repress his snort. If only the bloke knew just what sort of ‘man’ he was talking to, he’d be singing a different tune.  
  
“You come,” the stranger said, beckoning him towards the village. “My home is small, but you are welcome to rest there.”  
  
Spike meant to say no, but he could feel the impending sunrise itching its way along his nerve endings. “Much obliged.”  
  
“I am called Jacob Byabagambi,” the man rumbled as they made their way through the village. He looked at Spike expectantly.  
  
“Sp… William.”  
  
Jacob paused outside a circular hut and drew back the curtain over the entrance. “Welcome, William.” He ducked inside after Spike, and added, “Forgive the state of my home. My son has been ill and I had to leave to get him medicine.” He opened the small cloth sack he’d been carrying, and removed what looked like leaves and twigs. “It is not contagious, so do not worry.”  
  
“Not an issue,” Spike said, wondering what to do with himself now that he was here. Normally, he would’ve had himself a nice meal and settled in for a nap until the sun set, but this wasn’t normally. Nothing would be _normally_ ever again.  
  
Shifting uneasily in the tiny, dark enclosure, he wondered if there was still time to find himself a nice cave. Somewhere that didn’t reek of illness and poverty. The slowly brightening room suggested probably not, and Spike resigned himself to a miserable day. Not like he deserved otherwise, really, but it didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.  
  
Soul or not, he was no Angel.  
  
A shape in the corner stirred, revealing a woman who could’ve been anywhere from thirty to seventy. She began to jabber, words Spike didn’t understand, but cut off abruptly when she noticed him standing there. Climbing to her feet, she narrowed her eyes at him.  
  
Spike shivered under her hard gaze. She knew him. Knew what he was. He was sure of it.  
  
He really shouldn’t have come here.  
  
“My wife’s mother,” Jacob said. “She does not speak English much, I am afraid. Nor does she trust strangers.”  
  
“Don’t rightly blame her. Tell her I mean no harm,” Spike said, his eyes locked on hers and hands raised to emphasize his words. “I’ll be on my way at nightfall.”  
  
Jacob relayed his message, which prompted a rapid, angry back and forth between the two of them. He snorted in contempt, and turned his back on her.  
  
“You are welcome here, William,” he said again. “Are you hungry?”  
  
“Just point me to an out-of-your-way corner where I can catch a bit of shut-eye.”  
  
“You may use my bed,” Jacob said, with a jerk of his thumb. “It is unused many nights now and not dirtened. I have been too busy caring for my son, Nsubuga, to sleep in it.”  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that, mate,” Spike said. He lowered himself to the pallet on the floor, keeping a careful eye on Jacob’s mother-in-law. As he gave in to exhaustion, Spike thought that it would only be fitting if the woman ended him. She deserved her vengeance.  
  
But not before the Slayer had hers.  
  


  
  
_July 2008_  
  
  
What did killing two Slayers, earning a soul, and closing a Hellmouth have in common? They were a hell of a lot easier than figuring out your purpose in life and becoming your own man, Spike thought sourly.  
  
Unlife had been simple with Dru. What Dru wanted, Dru got. The same had applied to Buffy, even after the soul. He’d been happy to dance to their tune, letting their purpose be his purpose. After LA, he’d gotten a taste of being his own man, and living for Buffy - well, it wasn’t quite enough for him anymore.  
  
Which was a good thing, he supposed. More healthy-like, yeah? But _harder_.  
  
Since his trip to the far side of the moon, Spike had come to accept that he was a follower, not a leader. And that he was willing to follow Buffy in the fight against evil, not just for her, but for him. It was a big enough cause for the both of them.  
  
But he still wanted something that was his and his alone. He had a lot to atone for, and could never make it up to all the families he’d destroyed, most of them being long dead. Even the ones still alive - there were so many. He’d never be able to make restitution to all of them, not if he lived another century, and how could he choose which families deserved it most? He couldn’t.  
  
After Sunnydale, he’d tried being a brooding wanker. Atoning for his sins through random acts of Champion, helping the hopeless and all that rot. But that was Angel’s gig - Angel had always been about the grand gestures. Spike needed something smaller. More personal. It had always been people who’d drawn him in, even when soulless, not noble (or un-noble) causes.  
  
Which was why he kept returning to the idea of making it up to the families he’d destroyed - not that he truly could make up for murder, _ever_ , but the impossibility of it didn't absolve him from atonement. But how? The sheer numbers alone were enough to paralyze him into inaction. Spike wanted to make a tangible difference. Something he could point to and say, _I did that. I made a difference to that one._  
  
As he thought the phrase, he was reminded of long-ago conversation with Buffy.  
  
Maybe that was what he needed - a starfish of his own.

  
  
  
_March 2009_  
  
  
Buffy sorted through the mail on the end table. Bill, bill, junk mail, bill… Oooh, Victoria’s Secret catalog… She flipped through it for a few minutes, thinking it was nice to finally have a reason to buy sexy underwear, before going back to the stack of mail.  
  
She paused at a letter - an actual letter! - addressed to her, in a handwriting she didn’t recognize. Buffy checked the return address, and let out a surprised _oh!_ as she realized who it was from. Smiling, she slid a finger under the flap.  
  
“I see you found Aluel’s letter,” Willow said, plunking down on the couch beside her a few minutes later. She picked up the photograph Aluel had sent, and examined it. “How’s she doing?”  
  
“Good. Sounds like she’s done well for herself - she’s finishing up university now and everything.” Buffy didn’t add that it was more than she herself had accomplished. No jealousy there, nope. “I suppose I have you to thank for tracking her down and giving her my address? Thank you, by the way. I always wondered what happened to her.”  
  
“Wasn’t me.”  
  
Buffy frowned. “Huh. If it wasn’t you…?”  
  
Willow hesitated a long moment before saying, “Um. I’d ask Spike.”  
  
“Spike? What? Why would you think it was Spike?”  
  
“Just… talk to him,” Willow said. Getting to her feet, she patted her messenger bag. “I’ve got to finish up this project for Theo. Catch you later?”  
  
“Sure,” Buffy said absently, still wondering why Willow thought Spike was the one responsible for finding Aluel. She followed Willow out the door, and made her way down the hall to the guys’ apartment.  
  
“Hey,” she said when Spike answered her knock. “Guess who I got a letter from today?”  
  
He motioned her inside. “Who?”  
  
“Aluel. Remember her? Mom’s starfish? I wonder how she found me.”  
  
Spike shifted, his expression distinctly evasive. Buffy raised an eyebrow, and he caved. “Yeah, it was me. Just thought you’d want to know how she was.” He shuffled his feet some more.  
  
“Yeah, I did. I really did. So thank you,” she said, smooshing her body up against his and wrapping her arms around his neck. Any excuse to make with the snugglies, right? Besides, she really was grateful. “But what made you think of it?”  
  
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ve been together, what? Three months now? Four?”  
  
 _Fourteen weeks, five days. Give or take a few hours_. Buffy knew he was counting too, but she didn’t call him on it. “Yeah, sounds about right.”  
  
“Guess it’s time to introduce you to the kids, then,” he muttered.  
  
Spike pulled out of her embrace and, taking her hand, led her to his bedroom. She followed, bemusement turning to curiosity as he dropped to his knees and began rooting under his bed. A moment later, he pulled out a large book and handed it to her.  
  
“Is this a _scrapbook?_ ” she said, taking in the brown faux-leather cover and the simple cream ribbon running up the inner edge of it.  
  
“Of a sorts.”  
  
Buffy looked at the single word written in Spike’s most careful lettering on the cover. _Namalu_. She had no idea what that meant, but it was obviously something he cared deeply about. Taking a seat on his bed, she set the book on her lap and looked back up at her boyfriend’s apprehensive face. “Spike, what is this?” She spoke quietly, sensing that his sharing this with her was a pivotal moment for him. For both of them.  
  
He perched beside her, shoulders tense, and shifted the scrapbook so it covered both their laps. Taking a deep breath, he flipped it open to the first page. With a wave of his hand at the half-dozen photographs of brightly-clothed children smiling up at them, he said, “Buffy, I’d like you to meet my starfish.”  
  
  
  
 _Fin_.


End file.
